I was in Abidjan, Cote d'Ivoire's capital, a few weeks ago, and I saw men with suits and ties. Cars sped home, their headlights whizzing by, one after the other under street lamps. These things I don't see in Daloa, the city I live in. I watched all this and pretended I was in Marseille and DC and Bryn Mawr, just to feel something familiar. And I felt relieved. I told myself, “Ahh, this is good. Abidjan is the biggest city and the capital of Cote d’Ivoire, and it always happens that things begin in one place and spread out. In time, Daloa will have these same things.”
Then I stopped myself. Is modernization what we should be striving for? Does living in what we call “a developed world” make us happy? I know this is a theme that’s been running through my blogs. I’m not saying that the answer to the world’s problems is to live in a village in Africa without electricity or running water. But I’m also saying the answer is not what we call “development” either – bringing the Third World out of “poverty”. I’m currently reading Sidney Poitier’s Measure of a Man, and he speaks beautifully of his childhood living in “poverty” in the “Third World” on an island in the Bahamas:
“Our cultural ‘authenticity’ extended to having neither plumbing nor electricity, and we didn’t have much in the way of schooling or jobs, either. In a word, we were poor, but poverty there was very different from poverty in a modern place characterized by concrete. … In the kind of place where I grew up, what’s coming at you is the sound of the sea and the smell of the wind and your mama’s voice and the voice of our dad and the craziness of your brothers and sisters – and that’s it … You’re watching the behavior of your siblings and of your mom and dad, noting how they behave and how they attend to your feedings and how they care for you when you have pain or when the wasp stings you around your eye. What occurs when something goes wrong is that someone reaches out, someone soothes, someone protects.”
Isn’t that beauty? Isn’t that richness?
I’m not saying modernization is terrible. Technology has bourne phenomenal movies like Schindler’s List, Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner, and Philadelphia, which have helped us to question our own prejudices and make an effort to move past them. The drug that put my Dad’s cancer in remission was created just a few years before he got sick. Thanks to Skype, I can call my sister from Africa to find out about her adventures in Puerto Rico- and Bryn Mawr. Through planes, trains, and automobiles we can discover beautiful places – and also meet people from all over and thus find the common humanity in all of us.
I guess what I want to say is that Poitier shows how people give other people what they need. Care from others and love from others is food – we need it, just like we need to eat everyday. And when we don’t get it, we are hungry – perhaps starved. A month after St Lucia happened, on Thanksgiving night in 2006, I found myself sobbing in my basement. And I mean sobbing – I was coughing because I was crying so hard. And it lasted for almost an hour. I thought I would never stop, except that my mom came downstairs and simply put her arm around me. And suddenly the pain and trauma melted away, and the jarring that was within felt soothed. That’s when I realized how much we need each other, how much we need someone “to reach out, to soothe, to protect” as Poitier puts it. This is the other food we need. And if we expect it from others, we must give it to others as well.
In the developed world, we have love, we have compassion, we have family, we have laughter. I guess I just want everyone to see that Africa is not a continent only of civil war, corruption, and sickness. It is a land of people who do indeed “reach out, soothe, and protect.” For example, I was terribly sick on Christmas Day – spent the whole day in bed at my colleague’s with a pounding headache, pain in my joints, and a fever. My colleague took amazing care of me – let me stay at his house, made sure I had all I needed. The next day, my colleague told me this person and that person asked about me and wished me a “bon guerison” (basically the French “get well soon.”) My neighbor saw me and immediately asked with sincere worry in his face if I was feeling better. I asked how they even knew I was sick, and it was because one 13 year old girl I knew saw me before I got really sick and I told her I had a headache. Word spreads quickly – people are concerned. My neighbor made me a soup with ingredients known to heal. And while she may have helped me to heal physically, it was her thought, her kindness, and her care that brought a deeper healing – It was nourishing for the spirit.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Sunday, November 30, 2008
On our sameness.
I think often about how Ivoirians are a people coming out of colonialism. This is a very young nation; it became independent in 1960. It is 48 years old. The French influence is everywhere here – from the baguettes I eat to the Socialist political mentality to the most common mode of communication, the French language. (Though there are over 60 ethnic languages still spoken here.) I ask myself what this place would be if the French didn’t come in. I ask myself why one racial or ethnic group thinks they have a right to subvert another? I ask myself why human history constantly tells the story of a more powerful group taking advantage of a less powerful group, causing immense physical and emotional suffering to the people in the less powerful group.
I don’t understand how there are 6 billion humans in this world, all of the same make, all with the same needs. And why is there so much pain, so much suffering caused by human hands? I don’t understand how we came to be this way. It seems to me we as a collective and we as individuals are doing something very wrong, completely missing the mark.
We all know the emptiness, pain, and disappointment of losing someone we care about. We feel strongly the absence of someone who brings joy to our lives when they are not there. It’s hard enough when someone moves away or dies a natural death. We can all empathize with the pain that brings to the human heart. So I don’t understand why we CHOOSE to do bring that suffering to other people.
Racial or ethnic social groups have been very successful at dehumanizing other racial or ethnic groups. I suppose the dehumanization helps us in our effort to cause them harm. We Americans know well the picture of “the Jap” used during World War II. He looks so goofy, so unintelligent. He is portrayed as not having the same brain that thinks or the same heart the feels. This propaganda helped us to be more comfortable with dropping the atomic bomb on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. And yet, the testimony of those in Hiroshima and Nagasaki in 1945 – the terror, the desperation, the fear, the confusion – is the same that the folks in Mumbai experienced a few days ago. Why do we keep repeating the same destruction?
Our failure to recognize our common humanity destroys our own humanity.
Even in the cyber café the other day, I found my own prejudices mounting when the Lebanese guy sitting next to me tried to help me with my computer when I couldn’t connect to the Internet. My immediate thought was, “Ugh, this annoying guy just wants to hit on me because I’m white. Typical.” Roll my eyes. As we started talking, I found out that he has a girlfriend (ie: He was NOT hitting on me). And he was friends with the American who was here in Daloa last year. Almost immediately, I tagged him as annoying, a little desperate, and with nothing to say, all because of his Middle Eastern features. And as we began to talk, I of course almost immediately found something we had in common and that was of interest to me: his extensive travel. And as I grilled him about why he moved from Oslo to Daloa to Cyprus and back to Daloa, I thought to myself, “Yes, my friend, we are both on the same journey. We are both doing what we can to satisfy a hungry heart. We are the same.”
I don’t understand how there are 6 billion humans in this world, all of the same make, all with the same needs. And why is there so much pain, so much suffering caused by human hands? I don’t understand how we came to be this way. It seems to me we as a collective and we as individuals are doing something very wrong, completely missing the mark.
We all know the emptiness, pain, and disappointment of losing someone we care about. We feel strongly the absence of someone who brings joy to our lives when they are not there. It’s hard enough when someone moves away or dies a natural death. We can all empathize with the pain that brings to the human heart. So I don’t understand why we CHOOSE to do bring that suffering to other people.
Racial or ethnic social groups have been very successful at dehumanizing other racial or ethnic groups. I suppose the dehumanization helps us in our effort to cause them harm. We Americans know well the picture of “the Jap” used during World War II. He looks so goofy, so unintelligent. He is portrayed as not having the same brain that thinks or the same heart the feels. This propaganda helped us to be more comfortable with dropping the atomic bomb on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. And yet, the testimony of those in Hiroshima and Nagasaki in 1945 – the terror, the desperation, the fear, the confusion – is the same that the folks in Mumbai experienced a few days ago. Why do we keep repeating the same destruction?
Our failure to recognize our common humanity destroys our own humanity.
Even in the cyber café the other day, I found my own prejudices mounting when the Lebanese guy sitting next to me tried to help me with my computer when I couldn’t connect to the Internet. My immediate thought was, “Ugh, this annoying guy just wants to hit on me because I’m white. Typical.” Roll my eyes. As we started talking, I found out that he has a girlfriend (ie: He was NOT hitting on me). And he was friends with the American who was here in Daloa last year. Almost immediately, I tagged him as annoying, a little desperate, and with nothing to say, all because of his Middle Eastern features. And as we began to talk, I of course almost immediately found something we had in common and that was of interest to me: his extensive travel. And as I grilled him about why he moved from Oslo to Daloa to Cyprus and back to Daloa, I thought to myself, “Yes, my friend, we are both on the same journey. We are both doing what we can to satisfy a hungry heart. We are the same.”
Monday, November 17, 2008
On liberation.
It’s been amazing to witness Obama’s election here in Cote d’Ivoire. No matter what your ideological persuasion, no one can’t say that the election of a black man as President of the US, even if he wasn’t a descendant of slaves, is an incredible victory for the unity of our country.
Most everyone knows that racism is something I think about a lot. When I was in France, I youtubed video of the civil rights movement on MLK Jr.’s birthday and watched television specials about MLK Jr’s life on the 40th anniversary of his death last April. I saw water from fire hoses pummel people and trap them against buildings. I saw white demonstrators shout with stark rage and fury as black students pursued their education at a formally all white school. I saw the demonstrators’ signs teeming with disgust and hatred at other human beings. Watching all this, I felt such hurt and disbelief – how could my people have treated other human beings like this? How could my people have taken away the humanity of other human beings like this?
During the whole 45 minutes of the show on MLK Jr.’s life and death, I cried, letting out a pain that came from somewhere deep within me. A pain that is still with me, the pain of division among our brothers and sisters in America.
I know this history is very recent, not even 50 years ago. I am filled with anger, sadness, and fear that we will never surmount it. My mind goes immediately to my really close black friends. They have taught me life’s lessons, helped me grow, and have been an affirming reassurance when I’ve been scared or nervous, like any good friend does. I watch these videos and acknowledge the fact that I would not have the joy and comfort these friendships give me if I was born in a different time or place. Then I think of an even worse reality – what if my black friends, who mean so much to me, were told they weren’t good enough to use the same space on a bus, restaurant, or toilet as me? What if they always had to hide their intelligence for fear of coming across audacious? What if their church was burned to the ground? What if they were constantly told in cold and cutting English, “Leave. You’re not welcome here.”
Lastly, the real worst, the heart-breaking truth. What if I was a perpetrator? What if I told black people they didn’t deserve to be in a public place or to get an education? What if I told them verbally and nonverbally that they were less than I? If I grew up with the idea that black people are less intelligent, less able, more brutish, more violent, why would I think otherwise? We are all raised with values. It’s completely possible. It’s cultural.
And yet, we are still in the 21st century raised with these values, even if they’re not in our own homes. The evening news wherein black men are almost always represented in situations of violence. The cartoons wherein the physically darker characters, whether by dress, features, or skin color, are the evil ones. This is why my black friends today talk of being followed in stores or seeing someone clutch their purse as they walk past.
Don’t get me wrong, I am proud of the progress our country has made. It was 25 years ago that MLK Jr. had a dream that “the sons of slaves and the sons of slave owners would sit down together at the table of fraternity.” And we are doing this more and more. But I just hope that we keep up the fight for the humanity of all of our brothers and sisters, because there is still much work to be done.
Most everyone knows that racism is something I think about a lot. When I was in France, I youtubed video of the civil rights movement on MLK Jr.’s birthday and watched television specials about MLK Jr’s life on the 40th anniversary of his death last April. I saw water from fire hoses pummel people and trap them against buildings. I saw white demonstrators shout with stark rage and fury as black students pursued their education at a formally all white school. I saw the demonstrators’ signs teeming with disgust and hatred at other human beings. Watching all this, I felt such hurt and disbelief – how could my people have treated other human beings like this? How could my people have taken away the humanity of other human beings like this?
During the whole 45 minutes of the show on MLK Jr.’s life and death, I cried, letting out a pain that came from somewhere deep within me. A pain that is still with me, the pain of division among our brothers and sisters in America.
I know this history is very recent, not even 50 years ago. I am filled with anger, sadness, and fear that we will never surmount it. My mind goes immediately to my really close black friends. They have taught me life’s lessons, helped me grow, and have been an affirming reassurance when I’ve been scared or nervous, like any good friend does. I watch these videos and acknowledge the fact that I would not have the joy and comfort these friendships give me if I was born in a different time or place. Then I think of an even worse reality – what if my black friends, who mean so much to me, were told they weren’t good enough to use the same space on a bus, restaurant, or toilet as me? What if they always had to hide their intelligence for fear of coming across audacious? What if their church was burned to the ground? What if they were constantly told in cold and cutting English, “Leave. You’re not welcome here.”
Lastly, the real worst, the heart-breaking truth. What if I was a perpetrator? What if I told black people they didn’t deserve to be in a public place or to get an education? What if I told them verbally and nonverbally that they were less than I? If I grew up with the idea that black people are less intelligent, less able, more brutish, more violent, why would I think otherwise? We are all raised with values. It’s completely possible. It’s cultural.
And yet, we are still in the 21st century raised with these values, even if they’re not in our own homes. The evening news wherein black men are almost always represented in situations of violence. The cartoons wherein the physically darker characters, whether by dress, features, or skin color, are the evil ones. This is why my black friends today talk of being followed in stores or seeing someone clutch their purse as they walk past.
Don’t get me wrong, I am proud of the progress our country has made. It was 25 years ago that MLK Jr. had a dream that “the sons of slaves and the sons of slave owners would sit down together at the table of fraternity.” And we are doing this more and more. But I just hope that we keep up the fight for the humanity of all of our brothers and sisters, because there is still much work to be done.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
On wealth.
It’s really interesting to be an American living abroad. My 9 and 10-year-old students in France were obsessed with the United States. They would say it was their dream to live there. Even many adults in France, same thing. Here in Côte d’Ivoire, it’s even stronger. Everywhere I go when people find out I’m American, they tell me how much they want to go there. People outside of the US have this idea that the US really is the land of milk and honey – that in America, one’s life is comfort, ease, joy, and pleasure.
Yet we Americans know this is not true. We are acutely aware that we are plagued by addiction, by aggression, and other symptoms of deep spiritual pain.
I always tell people here that while in the States we have laptops and big cars and nice clothes, we are rich only in terms of material wealth. What we do not have in the States is spiritual wealth – the ability to find joy and appreciation in who we are, each of us, as individuals. And the ability to truly and deeply embrace other people as our brothers and sisters in the human family. I mean brothers and sisters in the deepest sense – that above anything else, we give attention, openness, and care to those we cross in our lives, whether in our family or when passing in the grocery store. Ivoirians call everybody their brother, aunt, etc, no matter what their blood relation. While I find this confusing, an Ivoirian friend explained to me that calling someone “my mom’s friend” makes that person too distant. And she couldn’t fathom why you would want to distance yourself from someone else.
I will also add that I’m happier here than I was in France. My life in Marseille consisted of 12 hours of work a week, coffees in cafes on a beautiful port, walks along the Mediterranean Sea, and traveling in Europe. Here, I am constantly uncomfortably hot, itching mosquito bites, and must communicate in a language I haven’t mastered. (There are no native English speakers here – It’s French all the time). Despite this, in Marseille I carried with me a loneliness that I don’t feel here in a land of such strong fraternity.
I’m jealous of people in Côte d’Ivoire. Writing from West Africa, I think my country is very poor. In the States, we see other people as objects to manage and negotiate. I pray that we all learn to see each other as who we really are: souls deeply in need of love and affection.
I send big hugs to everyone back at home, and miss you much!
Yet we Americans know this is not true. We are acutely aware that we are plagued by addiction, by aggression, and other symptoms of deep spiritual pain.
I always tell people here that while in the States we have laptops and big cars and nice clothes, we are rich only in terms of material wealth. What we do not have in the States is spiritual wealth – the ability to find joy and appreciation in who we are, each of us, as individuals. And the ability to truly and deeply embrace other people as our brothers and sisters in the human family. I mean brothers and sisters in the deepest sense – that above anything else, we give attention, openness, and care to those we cross in our lives, whether in our family or when passing in the grocery store. Ivoirians call everybody their brother, aunt, etc, no matter what their blood relation. While I find this confusing, an Ivoirian friend explained to me that calling someone “my mom’s friend” makes that person too distant. And she couldn’t fathom why you would want to distance yourself from someone else.
I will also add that I’m happier here than I was in France. My life in Marseille consisted of 12 hours of work a week, coffees in cafes on a beautiful port, walks along the Mediterranean Sea, and traveling in Europe. Here, I am constantly uncomfortably hot, itching mosquito bites, and must communicate in a language I haven’t mastered. (There are no native English speakers here – It’s French all the time). Despite this, in Marseille I carried with me a loneliness that I don’t feel here in a land of such strong fraternity.
I’m jealous of people in Côte d’Ivoire. Writing from West Africa, I think my country is very poor. In the States, we see other people as objects to manage and negotiate. I pray that we all learn to see each other as who we really are: souls deeply in need of love and affection.
I send big hugs to everyone back at home, and miss you much!
Monday, October 20, 2008
Learning
Bonjour, mes chers amis! (Hello, my dear friends!).
Well, I am happy to report that the same sentiment I had when I wrote the first blog is still with me. I love this place. I love it for the people's warmth, its generosity, its spirit. I am now in Daloa, which is the third largest city in Cote d’Ivoire. Around Daloa are many villages, some with electricity, some without. Our literacy program is focused on these villages. The vast majority of their inhabitants are cocoa and coffee farmers. In fact, 46% of the world’s cocoa supply comes from Cote d’Ivoire, and 80% comes from CI and neighboring Ghana. So the next time you eat “Swiss chocolate,” you’re actually probably eating West African chocolate. It was just made into a candy bar in Switzerland, hence the name. It's better for advertising to say it's "Swiss."
We visited one of these villages called Sokoura. After a bumpy journey we arrived - The roads are so bad I honestly thought we were going to tip over a couple times. Walking through the village, we saw recently harvested cocoa and coffee seeds laid out on huge mats. Our host led us to a little schoolhouse where we met with about 35 members of the community. There, the chief told us their main problem is not having safe drinking water. When rain comes, the people wait for a pool of water to form, then drink from it. He knows this is not healthy, but what other alternative do they have? I actually found out later that 75% of the health problems here are from not having safe drinking water.
Despite this, the people exhibited a generosity I honestly have never seen before. As we left, they brought us two huge bags of oranges. They also gave us bananas and cassava. I couldn’t believe it. We came to help them, and they don’t even have clean water, and they gave us food. Later in talking to Ivoirians, I was told that you can’t receive someone without giving them something, just honoring the fact that they came to see you. As if it was a great kindness just to introduce ourselves. What if we were all like that? The next person we meet, so grateful to have met them, that we gave them a gift, even if we had very little? Doing this, instead of looking someone up and down and trying to discern who they are and what they’re about. Doing this, instead of judging them. Their generosity reminded me of a line from the movie "It Could Happen to You," wherein a couple lost all their money, and “in their darkest hour,” invited a homeless man into their cafe for a bowl of soup. This is not the village’s darkest hour, but it’s the same theme – giving when one has so little. A Christian parable discusses the same type of generosity: A poor woman gives her last penny to the Church, while a wealthier man gave a lot but made sure he had his personal stuff in place, and Jesus pointed to the woman and explained that she gave more.
I am learning so much about how to act out all the positive things about my humanity here. Ironically, I came here to assist with education, yet I am the one being educated. I am so glad that I am here for nine months. I have a lot of time for friends and colleagues and experiences to continu to teach me.
Well, I am happy to report that the same sentiment I had when I wrote the first blog is still with me. I love this place. I love it for the people's warmth, its generosity, its spirit. I am now in Daloa, which is the third largest city in Cote d’Ivoire. Around Daloa are many villages, some with electricity, some without. Our literacy program is focused on these villages. The vast majority of their inhabitants are cocoa and coffee farmers. In fact, 46% of the world’s cocoa supply comes from Cote d’Ivoire, and 80% comes from CI and neighboring Ghana. So the next time you eat “Swiss chocolate,” you’re actually probably eating West African chocolate. It was just made into a candy bar in Switzerland, hence the name. It's better for advertising to say it's "Swiss."
We visited one of these villages called Sokoura. After a bumpy journey we arrived - The roads are so bad I honestly thought we were going to tip over a couple times. Walking through the village, we saw recently harvested cocoa and coffee seeds laid out on huge mats. Our host led us to a little schoolhouse where we met with about 35 members of the community. There, the chief told us their main problem is not having safe drinking water. When rain comes, the people wait for a pool of water to form, then drink from it. He knows this is not healthy, but what other alternative do they have? I actually found out later that 75% of the health problems here are from not having safe drinking water.
Despite this, the people exhibited a generosity I honestly have never seen before. As we left, they brought us two huge bags of oranges. They also gave us bananas and cassava. I couldn’t believe it. We came to help them, and they don’t even have clean water, and they gave us food. Later in talking to Ivoirians, I was told that you can’t receive someone without giving them something, just honoring the fact that they came to see you. As if it was a great kindness just to introduce ourselves. What if we were all like that? The next person we meet, so grateful to have met them, that we gave them a gift, even if we had very little? Doing this, instead of looking someone up and down and trying to discern who they are and what they’re about. Doing this, instead of judging them. Their generosity reminded me of a line from the movie "It Could Happen to You," wherein a couple lost all their money, and “in their darkest hour,” invited a homeless man into their cafe for a bowl of soup. This is not the village’s darkest hour, but it’s the same theme – giving when one has so little. A Christian parable discusses the same type of generosity: A poor woman gives her last penny to the Church, while a wealthier man gave a lot but made sure he had his personal stuff in place, and Jesus pointed to the woman and explained that she gave more.
I am learning so much about how to act out all the positive things about my humanity here. Ironically, I came here to assist with education, yet I am the one being educated. I am so glad that I am here for nine months. I have a lot of time for friends and colleagues and experiences to continu to teach me.
Friday, October 3, 2008
In Abidjan
Picture 1: At the airport in Abidjan, after 30 hours to travel, we've arrived!
Picture 2: Moving into our housing in Abidjan for orientation
Picture 3: At Bassam, a beach town an hour away freom Daloa. The women are frying mashed banana.
Picture 4: IFESH team, 2008-2009
Picture 5: A friend of a friend is an English teacher in Abidjan, and I stepped in and taught a couple classes. here with very motivated and sweet students.
Salut tout le monde! (Hello everyone!) Well it's been not even three weeks and already an adventure. I'm really happy I made this decision - most of you know it was a rocky summer deciding whether to go or not. But there has been something deep within me for years that has demanded I live in West Africa, and here I am.
A lot of this for me is about race. More specifically, race and power. I don't know exactly what I'm supposed to discover and learn here, but most of you know I have a keen interest in power and oppression - specifically when it comes to the black and white issue.
I thought I would come here and things wouldn't be as strained or problematic as they are in the States in terms of race. I thought people wouldn't be as "aware" of their blackness, because everyone is black here. However, colonialism leaves race-related tension. And globilization, which disadvantages poorer and less powerful countries (which are most often countries with people of color), continues it.
These nearly three weeks in Abidjan, the capital, have been busy, great, and exhausting. I have been blessed to spend time with Ivorian friends of my colleague and friend Lynne, who did this program last year. In this way, I've already gotten to "jump right into" being friends, instead of meeting people myself and having to build up trust. As we've been able to get into "hot topics" (ie: race and power), I've learned so much. Creole is not a dialect, but its own language- and a testimony to the ingenuity of Haitians, who created it so they could communicate despite the fact that slaveowners purposefully put Africans of different tribes (and thus different languages) together so they couldn't communicate with each other. There are ruins of universities in Africa - meaning that higher levels of education were values of ancient African societies. Rasta is not just a culture of weed and dreads, but a religion with belief in the Christian God as the Holy Trinity.
I think it's really important to not just represent Africa to the outside world as a place of child soldiers, HIV/AIDs, civil war, etc. I do not see savage or primitive here. Honestly, I have found a really open, warm spirit among the people here. In the US, we are more distant to our fellow man. Here, I feel embraced by people instead of feeling judged or suspect. For example, a friend of Lynne's is an English teacher and asked me to step in to one of his classes. I did twice - and as a thank you was invited dinner with two students, the teacher, and two admins. They took such care to make sure I had a very authentic meal, explained what everything was and how it was cooked, etc. There was laughter, ease, and openness even among students and admin staff who didn't know each other well. During the course of the meal, I told Yolande I liked her bag. This morning, I gave a final "lesson," and Yolande had offered me her bag as a thank-you. Her own bag! There is a graciousness here, a value of community instead of the individual, which is wonderful.
So I don't quite know how the blog is going to go. At this moment, it seems more reflective. I'll send out pics soon that will tell the story of what I've actually been doing. I'll do my best to document! Hugs to all!
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